


Low-Rise Jeans

by tangentiallyTJ



Category: Suspects (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 17:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangentiallyTJ/pseuds/tangentiallyTJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blame the low-rise jeans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low-Rise Jeans

Jack Weston stands on the Tube, feet firmly planted, hand on the support pole set in the center aisle. It’s crowded—no seats available and he would have left an empty one for someone else anyway. Someone who couldn’t tolerate standing.

It’s a cold day but Jack is feeling unusually warm. The reason stands facing him, one hand just below his on the pole, leaning into him a bit as if she needs his support. A woman. His coat hangs open, her coat hangs open, the coats overlap. Judging by the position of her elbow, her free hand appears to be holding him by the pocket of his low-rise jeans, or maybe a belt loop. Again, just a little extra support. She’s close to him, her face nearly next to his and only several inches away from his ear as she chats about silly things she’s read in the paper, her neighbor’s dog, a BuzzFeed poll she’s taken online to see what kind of character she’d be in _Lord of the Rings_. An elf, she says. Perceptive and insightful. She makes a face and he can’t help but smile.

She talks as if they are close friends or lovers, and onlookers assume they are.

Jack has no idea who she is.

She smells wonderful. Her eyes shine with devilish joy as she brushes against him with the sway of the moving train. Her hand, the one onlookers assume is clinging to him for stability, is resting on his low-rise jeans. Front and center.

She had slipped her fingertips into his pocket when they hit a rough stretch of track, then moved up to the top of his jeans. She’d run her fingers along the edge, under his shirt, fingertips just touching his stomach, her thumb trailing along the leather of his belt until she reached the buckle. It had made him jump, the notion that she might unbuckle his belt right in the middle of the Tube on a crowded weekday morning. People would notice.

He had quickly understood that her goal is to remain unnoticed. Her movements are subtle, her touch delicate, a simple brushing of neatly-manicured fingertips against his skin as she gauges his interest.

He smiles a little at the woman, as if to say she’s introduced an intriguing game and he will stick with it for a while even if he doesn’t know the rules. He puts his free hand in his coat pocket to keep it still. Much as he enjoys being in charge, this is her game and she needs to make the moves.

The game gets more interesting when her fingers move from his stomach down and slip inside his jeans. Her fingers are warm, smooth, long. Her knuckles move gently against his belly as she plays with the hair that starts under his navel and runs south. Her fingers splay out carefully, searching until she finds his half-hard cock.

Completely unrelated, the woman asks if he’s ever heard of geocaching, a fun modern take on treasure hunting or hide and seek. You never know what you’ll find when you set out, she says. You follow the coordinates and see what waits at your destination.

Jack nods. He can tell the woman knows his coordinates and is curious about the treasure she’s found. Curious, but not able to stay. Discretion dictates.

The woman moves her fingers up to the top of Jack’s low-rise jeans and begins running them back and forth, a few inches either side of his midline. Back and forth lightly against his skin, as she smiles with her full lips and flirts with her eyes and says nothing out of the ordinary. Jack’s cock rises to meet her, or tries to, but it was leaning this morning and he hadn’t bothered to adjust it. It needs adjusting now.

When they stop at a station she moves closer to him to make room for passengers leaving and entering their car. Her shoulder rests against his. His hand—pocket, coat, and all—goes to her hip and stays there. Holding her steady on the edge of the flow of traffic. Hiding her movements from prying eyes.

Fingers slip quickly into his jeans, knuckles press against his skin. Jack can’t help his sharp inhale. His abs tighten and her fingertips slide into the space between body and cock. Fingertips curl around the length, thumb rests on the tip of his cock and tweaks the dimpled opening, back and forth a fraction of an inch, as she rights him in his jeans.

Fingers wrap more securely around him and moved subtly up and down; thumb begins a rhythmic circling on the head of his cock.

Jack registers these things while he scans the people boarding the train, checking faces and body language, the cut and lay of clothes. Threat assessment: the policeman’s habit so deeply ingrained that it needs no conscious thought. He pays no attention to the woman and she seems to pay no attention to him as she casually glances at the commuters who shift for a place in the cramped space. It’s as if her hand has a mind of its own.

The train jolts to a start; she gives a firm tug on his cock and disengages.

“Bit of a lurch,” she says.

“I’ll be looking forward to the next one,” Jack replies. It’s the first time he speaks.

She smiles, but he sees a hint of surprise in the slight widening of her eyes. It’s his accent—she didn’t know he's Irish. Threat assessment: she hasn’t been sent by any of the fuckers he’s arrested. A description would have included a comment on his accent as an identifier. A slur against his ancestry and profession may have gone along with the comment.

So, the game isn’t likely a trap of some kind. Jack relaxes a little as his internal alert level drops closer to his external demeanor.

The train is moving again. They are back to their former positions. The woman runs her fingers along the top of his jeans again, just above his broad leather belt and heavy buckle. One difference. She runs her fingers back and forth with her fingertips inside his low-rise jeans, brushing the tip of his erection that nearly clears the top. She smiles casually at him and chats again while teasing him with her fingertips.

She shifts her hand ever-so-subtly and her fingertips reach further in. Around and around the head of his cock, under and back up again, tracing its shape, brushing the sensitive spots softly then a little more firmly, getting slowly more aggressive without moving much at all.

Another station, another stop. She tucks into him, he holds her against the influx of people, her hand slides easily into his row-rise jeans and he scans the crowd as if unaware. His grip through his coat tightens on her hip. Another lurch, he makes a small gasp of disappointment as she releases him again. He half-smiles at his own lack of control. Jack isn’t known for his poker face. The game is getting more challenging by the minute.

He has to choose, step away or stay? Oh, he’ll stay all right. Jack Weston loves a challenge.

Her delicate touch focuses on his most sensitive parts and leaves the rest of his cock aching for attention. Aching until the next stop. She strokes him more firmly; they start again and her hand moves away. Fingertips take over. They are wet now, with the stringy liquid she coerces from his cock. She plays around his open tip as if she enjoys the slick sensation.

She knows it gets to him; she can see it in his eyes, the intensity building as if he wants to put a hand in her hair and hold her mouth against his and fuck her with his tongue while she fucks him with those fingers.

“My stop’s coming up,” she says.

Jack grits his teeth; she sees the muscle flex in his jaw. His nostrils flare, he lowers his head a little and their foreheads nearly touch. His look is a command. Finish the game.

She shivers, moves her hand from the pole, and slips it under his coat and around his waist. She pulls herself close, as if seeking his warmth, and rests her head on his shoulder. Jack releases the pole, puts his hand in his other coat pocket and holds her close with his coat wrapped as far around her as he can. They hug the metal pole between them. Her hand is flat on his back, then it drops and rests on the top of his low-rise jeans. Center back. Until her hand moves, fingertips on his skin as she follows the top of his jeans around his side and across his stomach. His muscles tremble as she passes.

Her fingers slip into his jeans, past the ones petting the head of his cock, and wrap around his length. Every move she makes is controlled. They appear to be relaxed against each other, swaying gently with the movement of the train, a couple at ease. Her hands on his cock and his hands on her hips tell the truth, but they are hidden from the morning commuters around them.

He’s curious. He wants to know why she’s playing her game.

“Come here often?” Jack manages three words into her ear without his voice cracking, three words without letting a whimper or a groan escape. He counts it a victory.

“First time,” she breathes into his ear in turn. “Read about it in a book. Wanted to see if I could pull it off.”

“You’re about to,” he says, guttural and low. He swallows and breathes through his mouth, quick breaths that he can’t completely control and so must disguise. 

“Low-rise jeans,” the woman whispers in his ear. “Flat stomach, tight abs, easy access.”

A shiver runs the length of Jack’s body as he comes in her hand. She finishes him without missing a beat and pulls tissues from the front pocket of her jeans to clean them both off. They stop at her station.

“Blame the low-rise jeans,” she whispers in his ear as she eases his cock back where she found it and pulls his shirt in place. The woman gives him one final grin and is gone.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
